


Maybe We Were Meant To Be Lonely

by myownremedy



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - World War II, Character Death, Class Differences, England (Country), F/M, Flashbacks, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Multi, POV Alternating, Prison, Racism, Rape, Rape Culture, Semi-Public Sex, Sexism, Translation Available, Unrequited Love, Violence, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownremedy/pseuds/myownremedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The reporter is nodding, but history doesn’t sell so she changes the subject. “You’ve been compared to John Hughes and to</i> A Separate Peace.<i> Do you see this as a coming of age novel?”</i><br/>“Certainly,” Sean says. “It’s most definitely about the loss of innocence, about mistakes, about greed and jealousy and betrayal. But it’s also a fantastic love story.”</p><p>Or, the Atonement AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is part 1 of three, I think. Possibly four. This is the Atonement AU. Sean is 21 when it starts and happens to be the main character. It's canon-compliant with Atonement, unfortunately, but you don't have to watch the movie to understand this fic.  
> It takes place in 1998 and 1935 for this point, and it's clear when it switches.  
> Big shout out to [Amy](http://remember-the-algorithm.tumblr.com/) and [Venla](http://peculiarnuisance.tumblr.com/) for beta'ing, couldn't have done this without either of you!! <3  
> More details notes will come at the end. <3  
> Art for the story: [here](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/my_ownremedy/51066937/386/original.jpg) and [here](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/my_ownremedy/51066937/687/original.jpg). Thanks to Alex and Amy for these!  
> Title has been changed, sorry about that.  
> edit (5-13-14): translation now available in Chinese [here.](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=116143&extra=page%3D2%26filter%3Dtypeid%26typeid%3D23%26typeid%3D23)  
> disclaimer: the social network isn't mine, atonement isn't mine, y'all gay, y'all fictional, no copyright infringement was intended.  
> edit (4-13-15): this is a transformative work. I make no money off of it. I do not own what inspired this work (The Social Network, Atonement), but I do own this work itself and hold full copyright over it. Thank you.

Part I

_1991 and 1935_

 

_America, 1991_

“Mr. Parker,” the reporter says politely, “you mentioned that this book draws strongly on your experiences with your family. Would you mind explaining a little more?”

Sean Parker, seventy-seven years old, smiles faintly at the reporter even as the memories stream out inside from his bald head, unfolding, blossoming… even the things he has never wanted to remember.

“My father died during the Great War, and my mother remarried,” he explains after a moment, voice clipped and faintly accented. He hasn’t lived in England in many years but his accent still lingers. “She married Edward Zuckerberg, an extremely wealthy man. They had a son, my brother, Mark Zuckerberg. Because my step-father was so wealthy, he employed a number of servants: among them were the Saverins; Mrs. Saverin and her son, Eduardo Saverin.”

The reporter – he thinks her name is Kelly – arches an eyebrow. “The main characters of your books are named Eduardo and Mark,” she says. “Was that a homage to your brother and boyhood friend?”

“My novel is based on their story,” Sean says quietly, so quietly that the reporter leans forward to hear him. “And their ruin.”

*

_England, 1935_

“Sean! You’re back!” his mother calls, and comes down the stairs to hug him. He hugs her back, smiling. Karen Zuckerberg is still lovely, even in her late forties, and she knows it.

“I’ve only been away for a few months,” Sean grins at her, “no need to be so excited.”

“Four and a half months is more than a few,” his mother says impatiently. “And I’ve missed you.”

“How is life treating you?” he asks, and she smiles again and cups his cheek for a moment.

“Fine, fine.” They begin to walk up the stairs together; a footman holds the door open for him. “I’m much better since both you and Mark are home now.”

“Mark’s home, huh?” Sean says with a raised eyebrow. “Would it have killed him to come say hello?”

“Oh, you know how he is,” his mother says, patting his arm. “He probably meant to but got distracted by his work. He’s working on theFacebook; we’ve barely seen him since he came home.” His mother sighs. “With both you and Eduardo back, it will be just like old times.”

“Eduardo’s back too?” Sean asks, surprised. “Funny, I thought he was staying at Cambridge.”

“No, he’s back to work for your step-father this summer,” Karen purses her lips. “He wants to try and pay us back for his education.” His mother has never approved of Edward’s interest in Eduardo or the fact that he sent both Eduardo and Mark to Cambridge. Sean knows this, but has no opinion on the matter.

“Oh,” his mother adds as an afterthought, “do say hello to your cousins, the Winklevosses. They’re staying with us with their Governess, Miss Albright, while Mr. Winklevoss is away fighting.”

“Is she German? The Governess?” Sean asks in concern.

“No, Austrian. Honestly, d’you think we’d let a German stay with us right now?” Karen shakes her head. “A German killed your father, Sean. I’ll never forgive them for that.”

Sean wraps an arm around her shoulders and squeezes. He knows his mother is happy with Edward, but it is clear that the death of Seamus Parker haunts her, even after all this time. He casts around for something to say. “I’m having a friend, Peter Thiel, come to dinner tomorrow. I hope that’s alright.”

“Of course,” his mother says easily. “Now go and get unpacked, and try to pry Mark away from his desk, would you?”

“Why not ask Eduardo? He’s much better at that than I am.”

Karen blinks at him. “Oh, they haven’t spoken since they returned,” she says after a moment. “I don’t know if they’re still friends.” She squeezes his arm one more time and departs, probably to get ready for dinner. Sean takes in the grand foyer and then jogs up the stairs, intent on finding Mark.

 

“Mark? Mark!” Sean calls: no response. He can hear the _tap tap_ of a typewriter echoing from Mark’s room. Cautiously, Sean walks over to Mark’s room. It’s an odd room, with a mussed up bed, three bookshelves and a currently occupied writing desk. These objects are all at one side of the room, probably for convenience, and this side of the room is incredibly messy; the other side of the room is neat and almost barren in comparison.

“Mark!” Sean says again: no response. He has to walk into Mark’s room and tap him on the shoulder twice before Mark twists to look at him.

“Oh,” Mark says, like he doesn’t care. “You’re home.” He’s smirking, though – a smile is tugging on the corner of his mouth and his eyes are amused.

“You utter bastard,” Sean laughs and pulls Mark into a hug that Mark tolerates for about half a moment before pulling away. “ _Yes,_ I’m home. How have you been? How is theFacebook? And why aren’t you talking to Saverin?”

“Eduardo?” Mark asks, brows furrowed. “I haven’t been… not talking to him, we just move in different circles right now. Who said I hadn’t been talking to him?”

“Mother,” Sean says simply. “I didn’t quite believe her, I know how close you two are.”

Mark, for some reason, flushes a dull red and looks away, fidgeting nervously with his shirt cuffs. Sean watches him for a moment but doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t know – because maybe he doesn’t want to know.

“So, how’s theFacebook?” he prompts, and Mark goes into a forty-five minute rant about ads and funding and how people can’t write and being an editor doesn’t mean writing their newsletter for them and how membership is ridiculous. From what Sean can tell, theFacebook is actually doing pretty well.

“Mark,” he says when Mark is mid-word, which earns him a scowl, “my friend Peter Thiel is coming over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“The man with the chocolate factory?” Mark asks after a minute, torn between curiosity and irritation at being interrupted. “The incredibly _rich_ Peter Thiel?”

“The one and only,” Sean confirms. “Maybe he will invest in theFacebook. Though I’ve been thinking… maybe we should drop the ‘the.’”

Mark thinks about this for a minute, and then nods and offers Sean a rare smile. “That does sound cleaner,” he acknowledges. “So… I don’t have to keep this man company, do I?”

“Not at all,” Sean says after a minute, struggling to keep up with the rapid subject change. “In fact, _please_ don’t,” because Mark isn’t sociable and he doesn’t want Peter to be scared off. “Leave it to me.” He pauses for a moment. “Though you should probably go see our cousins and their governess.”

“I’ve introduced myself,” Mark says dryly. “You know I don’t do well with small children. They like Eduardo better than me.” _Everyone always does_ goes unsaid, but understood.

Sean laughs. “See you tomorrow.”

“Leaving already?” Mark asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I know you’re busy,” Sean says, and that earns him another rare smile and a nod. Sean knows better than to get between Mark Zuckerberg and his work, and Mark appreciates this. “Besides, I’m exhausted. I’m for bed.”

Mark has already turned away from him, back to the typewriter, and waves a hand in acknowledgement. “Sleep well,” he calls, almost as an afterthought. Sean snorts and leaves to find his old room.

 

Mark’s mother means well but does not understand how important it is to get the newsletter written for Facebook and forces him to work outside. He lugs his typewriter with him and sits on the edge of the pond, because the sound of the fountain is soothing, and writes out a rough draft before he types it.

Unfortunately his pen explodes all over him and that is how Eduardo finds him; with ink all over his clothes and hair.

“Mark,” Eduardo says, and his eyes are crinkled in a smile.

Mark scowls at him, because it’s not funny.

“My mother thinks we don’t talk,” he announces instead of saying hello.

“We don’t,” Eduardo says after a minute. “We haven’t all summer. You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t!” Mark protests. “I’ve just been busy with Facebook.” He makes a small noise. “We dropped the ‘the.’ It sounds cleaner now.”

“Yeah,” Eduardo agrees, and he’s smiling again. “It does.” He goes to sit next to Mark, and Mark suddenly notices how tan Eduardo is, and that his shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, and swallows hard. “How has that been going, by the way?”

“Good,” Mark says after a minute, dragging his eyes from Eduardo’s chest to his eyes. “I mean, we need investors. No one wants to support a society that caters to all classes, but… I think it’s going to change everything.”

“All classes, huh? How come I haven’t been invited?” Eduardo teases, and Mark flushes and fidgets, because he hates remembering that Eduardo is a servant.

“Mark, I was kidding,” Eduardo says and lays out a hand to put on Mark’s arm, which Mark flinches away from so violently that Eduardo ends up knocking the typewriter into the pond.

“Oh, oh no, I’m so sorry!” Eduardo exclaims. He stretches out his hand, and Mark recoils again and glares at him.

 “You’re a bastard,” he snaps before unbuttoning his shirt.

“Mark? Mark, what are you doing? It will be waterlogged.”

Mark slips out of his shirt and undoes the buttons on his slacks, pulling them off and tossing them aside. Eduardo catches them and folds them absent-mindedly. “I can take it apart and repair it, Eduardo,” he says coldly.  
“I understand why you’ve been avoiding me all summer,” Eduardo says, maybe as a joke. “I’m obviously a danger to your typewriters.”

It’s not funny, and Mark wants to point that out but Eduardo’s eyes are dark and they flick down his body before jerking back up to his face.

Mark is suddenly aware that he’s only in boxer shorts and an undershirt.

He jumps into the pond instead of saying anything.

 

When he surfaces, clutching the typewriter, Eduardo is staring at him. There’s no teasing comment of “ _that was dramatic, Mark.”_ Instead his eyes are dark and he licks his lips.

Mark holds his gaze, because he doesn’t lose staring contests, and tries to forget that his white shirt and boxer shorts are soaked and plastered to his skinny, pale frame.

He tries not to notice Eduardo’s collarbones, framed by his shirt, and fails.

“Mark,” Eduardo says, and Mark shakes his head. Eduardo moves closer and then offers a hand to Mark, as if to guide him off the pond’s edge and onto the ground.

Mark takes it; Eduardo is impossibly warm, and his eyes are soft but his palm is callused, and he squeezes Mark’s hand.

Mark pulls away, feeling burned, feeling hot, feeling something spread up his spine.

“Your…” Eduardo clears his throat. “Your clothes.”

Mark takes them and steps into his pants and throws his shirt on. They’ll probably be ruined, but he… he feels suddenly vulnerable, with Eduardo staring at him like that.

Eduardo clears his throat and turns away, reaching out a hand and skimming the water that Mark had just exited.

“Eduardo,” Mark says, and Eduardo looks at him.

“What?”

Mark shakes his head and leaves.

 

Sean catches him just inside the door.

“What the bloody hell was that?” he demands, and Mark does not have time for this. He just looks at Sean with his best blank stare, but Sean is his brother and is thus partially immune. “You just stripped in front of Saverin!”

“He accidentally pushed my typewriter into the pond and I knew Mother would kill me if I got the shirt wet.” He surveys the shirt, which is mostly wet, and sighs.

“Yeah, that worked out well,” Sean says after a minute. “Mark… Saverin isn’t… bothering you, is he?”

Mark raises a single eyebrow. “Why would he be?”

“You practically sprinted away from him,” Sean points out, and Mark just shakes his head and climbs the stairs to his room, ignoring Sean.

 

“You look confused,” is how Eduardo’s mother greets him when he wanders in. Their house is on the grounds of the Zuckerbergs’ estate and is only a cottage compared to the Zuckerbergs’ mansion, but for Eduardo it’s always been home. He smiles absently at her, because he is confused. She keeps talking and he only tunes in when he hears: “… and you’ve been invited to dinner tonight at the Zuckerbergs’, isn’t that nice?”

“Oh,” he says, and thinks of Mark and how small he looked, and how challenging his eyes were, and how his hands were warm. “I should… I should probably get ready then.”

“Yes,” his mother calls. “I have the tub ready for you.”

“Mother, you didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs, and she smiles and then pushes him away. He obeys.

“Wear your dinner jacket,” his mother calls after him. “It’s going to be fancy.”

 

Eduardo does not get ready right away. Instead he sits at his desk and regards his own typewriter – not at all as nice as Mark’s – and thinks about what just happened.

He thinks about the heat he felt when Mark had stared at him, and how Mark’s eyes had lingered on his chest, on his mouth, before he had marched away.

Had he upset Mark that much? And why wouldn’t Mark let Eduardo touch him?

Eduardo has always been able to touch Mark, even when others have not. Mark had always tolerated his touch, had even leaned into it occasionally.

But of course, that had all changed at Cambridge.

Eduardo thinks of the glimpses he saw of Mark’s cock, straining against his wet underwear, and swallows. His fingers find the keys before he knows what he’s doing. Images are playing out in his head.

“Mark,” he types, unaware of what he’s doing, too caught up in what he’s imagining. “I dream about being inside you, about licking you open and inhaling you. I dream about doing… wonderful, terrible, dirty things to you. I wish you would let me.”

He wonders how Mark would react if Eduardo dropped to his knees and began to kiss the crotch of Mark’s pants; he wonders how Mark would react if he knew how much Eduardo _wanted_ him. Would he laugh?

Eduardo sighs and rips the dirty note out of the typewriter, folding it and putting it aside.

He then takes a very long bath and brings himself off leisurely, one hand fisted around his cock and imagining Mark’s mouth stretched around it instead.

The actual note he handwrites and, when he is finished with it, reads:

  
 _Mark,_

_I am so sorry for the damage I have caused to your typewriter. I know how important it is to the success of Facebook. I am truly sorry and hope I did not upset or offend you. If you cannot fix your typewriter, please feel free to borrow mine._

_I know things have been strange between us, and I believe it is my fault; honestly I feel foolish and light headed in your presence and I do not think I can blame the heat._

_Forgive me._

_Eduardo E. Saverin_

_  
_

Satisfied, he folds it into a triangle and finishes dressing in his dinner jacket; his mother has to help him with the bowtie.

“You look so handsome, darling,” she croons, her accent thick and, to him, welcoming.

Eduardo grabs the folded piece of paper and sets off. The sun is setting. The heat is thick and the birds are quiet. He hums absently to himself, because he’s never been good with silence and the shame of what he did, of what he thought, of what he wrote, is settling heavily on his shoulders.

“Saverin,” someone calls out, and Eduardo turns to see Sean striding towards him.

“Parker,” he says. “On your way to dinner?”

“Yes,” Sean says and smiles at Eduardo, who smiles back. He’s not as fond of Sean as he is of Mark; they grew up together and he knows Sean is a charming, self-interested shark. But Sean is also committed to his family, and thus to Mark, and Eduardo likes him because of this.

“Would you mind doing me a favour?” Eduardo asks. When Sean raises an eyebrow, Eduardo offers him the note. Something about it is odd – it looks the wrong shape – but he presses it into Sean’s hands. “Can you give this to Mark? I’d feel like an idiot doing so.”

“Of course,” Sean says, smiling. “Mark has that effect on people.”

Eduardo makes a noncommittal noise, because that’s not why he doesn’t want to deliver it; he hopes that if he lies low and apologizes, maybe Mark will stop being so _weird._ But he doesn’t bother to correct Sean and just smiles back and wipes his sweating palms on his slacks.

Sean is still talking. “But I’ll have to give it to him now, because I have to be there before Peter Thiel is, and he’s due any minute.”

“Go, then!” Eduardo says with a laugh. Sean nods to him and sets off at a jog.

Eduardo watches him go, wondering why his heart is sinking, why his palms are clammy.

He flashes back, focuses on the memory, on the way the note – rectangular – felt in his hand.

The note was a rectangle. The note he meant to give was a triangle.

“ _Sean!”_ he yells, desperate, but it’s too late. Sean is already out of reach.

 

Sean reads the note as soon as he reaches the steps to the courtyard. He then regrets it.

“Mr. Parker?” It’s the twins’ governess, Erica Albright – at least he thinks it’s her. No one else here has straight brown hair; the Zuckerbergs are gifted with overabundant curls. Erica is watching him intently with grey-green eyes. “Is something wrong?”

 _My childhood friend is a pervert._ “No,” Sean manages faintly. He forces a smile. “No, I just… interesting news, is all.”

Erica’s face is carefully blank, because she is a governess and he is above her in class, but he can tell she doesn’t believe him. “Say… do you know where Mark is? Mr. Zuckerberg? The younger one?”

“His room,” Erica says quietly. “I think he’s trying to get dressed.”

Sean leaves without saying goodbye. He can feel Erica’s eyes on him the entire time.

 

 

When Eduardo arrives at the courtyard, Mark is waiting for him. He’s biting his lip and looks both defiant and embarrassed. Eduardo swallows.

“Sean read your note,” Mark says quietly, and Eduardo wonders why he is surprised.

“I…. you were never meant to see that,” he mumbles. “I meant – the note was supposed to be an apology.”

Mark doesn’t say anything. Eduardo wants to die.

“It was a mistake,” he says. “You were never meant to see that.”

“You said that already,” Mark points out.

“I should leave,” Eduardo mutters, and he turns to go. Mark is suddenly next to him, gripping his arm.

“No,” Mark says, releasing Eduardo’s arm after Eduardo turns back to him. “You were invited to dinner. You’re still welcome. Sean won’t say anything.”

“Are you… are you sure?”

“I’m always sure, Wardo,” Mark says, and Eduardo stills.

Mark hasn’t called him that since they were sixteen.

“Alright,” he says.

“You can sit by me,” Mark tells him. It’s not really an offer, more of a command, and Eduardo relaxes, because this is the Mark he knows.

 

Dinner is incredibly awkward. Erica, who is apparently the governess of the Zuckerbergs’ visiting cousins, has been invited, as has Peter Thiel. Mark’s parents spend most of the time speaking to the twins; Sean is pitching the idea of Facebook to Thiel, who is staring very fixedly at Erica. Eduardo agrees that Erica is very pretty, but something about the way Thiel is staring at her unnerves him. Erica seems to agree, if her lowered eyes indicate anything. Mark ignores everyone in favor of his food. Eduardo is having trouble breathing, because Mark’s thigh is pressing rather insistently against his.

“Eduardo here also went to Cambridge with Mark,” Sean is saying, and Eduardo smiles at Peter Thiel and tries not to flush. “He’s going to be a doctor.”

“Really?” Mark interjects, paying attention for the first time. “I didn’t know that, Wardo.”

Eduardo can feel Sean’s eyes on the two of them, can feel his disapproval clear across the table. He clears his throat and looks down at his plate.

“Yes,” he says. “I think blood disorders are terribly fascinating.”

The conversation moves on and Eduardo breathes a sigh of relief, and then starts when he feels Mark’s hand curl around his wrist, fingers pressing against the knob of bone there.

His skin feels like it is on fire. Heat pools in his stomach.

“Mark?” Mrs. Zuckerberg says. “Are you well, dear? You’ve hardly said a thing all night.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Mark says, and he actually smiles at his mother. “But now that you mention it, I think I’m going to get some air. Eduardo, would you join me?”

“Of – of course,” Eduardo manages, and he follows Mark. Sean’s eyes bore into his back with every step.

 

Mark leads him to the library. Eduardo shuts the door after them and wonders if Mark is about to yell at him, or brain him with an atlas. Instead Mark regards him with a small smile.

“What was the original note about?”

“What?” Eduardo asks, flushing. “Oh. It… I was apologizing for knocking over your typewriter.”

Mark looks at him. He’s wearing a dark blue suit which brings out his eyes and his mouth is bitten-red and Eduardo really, really wants to kiss him.

“I was so angry with you because of that,” Mark says after a moment. “But it wasn’t actually about that at all, was it?”

“No,” Eduardo breathes, staring at him.

“I’ve been stupid,” Mark whispers, and Eduardo steps forward, and Mark steps back, like he needs to get this all out and Eduardo being near him will stop the flow of words. “I thought… I didn’t know, Wardo, and I was so stupid at Cambridge, and so stupid this summer, and it’s been there all along, hasn’t it?”

He’s blushing, from his cheeks to his ears and his neck, and Eduardo asks, incredulous: “Why are you embarrassed, Mark?”

“Don’t you know?” Mark asks, stilling, and he looks terrified, like Eduardo doesn’t know, like Eduardo will reject him. He does not, however, look away from Eduardo, and his eyes seem overbright even as he hunches forward slightly, like he’s trying to prepare for an attack, like he’s trying to protect himself.

It hurts Eduardo’s heart, to see Mark so unsure.

“Of course I do,” Eduardo tells him, and he steps forward and kisses Mark. Mark sighs into his mouth and Eduardo grips his hair, nipping at Mark’s bottom lip until Mark opens.

“Wardo,” Mark gasps when they break apart. “I want…”

“I know,” Eduardo breathes, and back Mark against the shelf. Mark kisses him this time and Eduardo lets him, too busy undoing Mark’s pants.

“Is this okay?” Eduardo asks, and Mark nods and tugs ineffectively at Eduardo’s belt, but pauses when Eduardo wraps a hand around Mark’s cock.

Mark actually whines.

“Fuck me,” he orders, and Eduardo flushes and kisses him very thoroughly, because Mark never swears and it’s incredibly erotic to hear that demand come out of his mouth.

“There are… we don’t have any supplies,” he mutters into Mark’s jaw, and Mark makes an impatient noise and produces a small jar of petroleum jelly.

“How did you…?”

“I was using it to fix my type writer,” Mark says blandly. “And I was…”

“You wanted this to happen?” Eduardo demands, and Mark nods after a minute, blushing and looking away.

“Mark,” Eduardo breathes. “ _Mark._ Are you sure?”

Mark doesn’t answer, just tugs his boxers down, and Eduardo hears what Mark said earlier: _I’m always sure, Wardo._

“Fuck,” Eduardo whispers, kneeling and pressing his nose to the side of Mark’s cock.

Mark is Jewish, so he’s cut, but he’s pink and hard and exquisite. “Mark, love, if I’m going to do this you’re going to have to turn around.”

Mark makes a displeased noise but obeys, and Eduardo spreads his cheeks and blows on Mark’s hole, feeling Mark quiver beneath him.

“You’re incredible,” he tells Mark and hears Mark’s self-deprecating laughter. Eduardo nips his thigh in punishment. “I mean it.”

“Wardo,” Mark murmurs. “Wardo, please.”

Eduardo doesn’t waste anymore time. He uses the petroleum jelly to slick up his finger and then traces Mark’s hole, careful of the delicate skin there. Mark’s hips jerk; he’s impatient, and makes an incredibly needy sound when Eduardo breaches him with the first finger.

The library is filled with Mark’s pants and moans as Eduardo works three fingers into him, kissing his thighs and his ass and finally crooking his fingers to prod Mark’s prostate. Mark cries out when he does that.

“What… what was that?” Mark demands, and Eduardo smirks against his skin.

“Your prostate,” he murmurs. “I learned about it in my Gray’s Anatomy book.”

“Oh,” Mark says, and Eduardo just knows that he’s going to make a comment about Eduardo being a doctor, so he prods Mark’s prostrate again and Mark goes limp. Eduardo does it again and again until Mark is shaking.

“Wardo… now,” Mark whimpers, and Eduardo stands and turns Mark until Mark is facing him, pulling down his own pants.

“How…?” Mark murmurs, and his pupils are huge and his mouth is bitten red and Wardo kisses him and fists his own cock a couple of times, making sure to slather it with the petroleum jelly.

“I’m going to hold you,” Eduardo explains, and Mark nods and then Eduardo lifts him up, and Mark half sits on the lip of a shelf and tilts himself forward, and Eduardo lines his cock up with Mark’s hole and then kisses Mark’s shoulder.

“Do it,” Mark orders, except it comes out as a whine, and Eduardo smiles at him and pushes in.

They both groan once he’s fully inside, and Mark wraps his legs around Eduardo’s waist, forcing Eduardo deep. Eduardo kisses him and Mark bites him and growls “Move,” so Eduardo does, thrusting long and slow and deep until Mark sucks a hickey onto his neck out of frustration.

“Faster?” Eduardo asks and Mark nods frantically, sucking beneath Eduardo’s ear. He doesn’t seem to mind the books digging into his back and Eduardo tries to both bury himself in Mark and not slam him against the bookcase.

There’s a creak, like the door is being opened, and Eduardo freezes. Mark’s eyes are shut and maybe he doesn’t notice, but he doesn’t move either. Eduardo waits. He hears footsteps, fading away. Whoever it was must have left. Maybe they were opening a different door. Whatever happened, they have to finish this.

“Mark,” Eduardo murmurs, and Mark focuses on him, biting his lip, and Eduardo kisses him and starts thrusting, snapping his hips against Mark’s ass.

“Mark… I love you,” he whispers, and Mark sighs and nods and kisses him back.

 “I need you,” Mark replies, and Eduardo knows what he means and he somehow wraps a hand around Mark’s cock and fists him while kissing him, and Mark comes with a truly spectacular yelp, fingers digging into Eduardo’s shoulders.

“Wardo,” he gasps, his voice absolutely broken, absolutely wrecked. “Come on,” and he moves up and down Eduardo’s cock, and Eduardo comes so hard he sees stars.

 

He sets Mark down with difficulty, and they both do up their pants. Eduardo drags a hand through his absolutely wrecked hair and hopes the collar on his shirt is high enough to hide his hickeys. Mark is watching him in this immensely satisfied and gentle way, and Eduardo smiles at him and kisses him.

The door opens and they leap apart, and Eduardo is grateful that they hadn’t wasted time doing up their clothes. They turn to see Sean watching them, his face unreadable.

“The twins have run away,” he announces to them. “We can’t find them. Erica’s absolutely hysterical.”

“Erica strikes me as not the hysterical type,” Mark comments, striding towards Sean. Eduardo wipes his fingers on his pants and follows him, distracted because for Mark to make that statement means he must have been paying attention to Erica, and for Mark to do that is rare. But Eduardo remembers Thiel’s fixed stare on Erica and how instead of blushing or confronting him she just ignored it, and wonders when Mark became smart.

Sean leads them to the courtyard. “She’s terribly worried and she’s gone out to search for them by herself. Stupid woman.” He sighs. “At least you two are calm. I told them, boys will be boys, but everyone is incredibly worried.”

Eduardo flushes, because that’s not why they’re calm, but again doesn’t bother to correct Sean.

“Will you help us? This countryside isn’t very forgiving to young boys.” Sean asks, and he’s worried too, even though he’s trying to hide it, making Eduardo soften. Sean may be a bastard but his family is everything to him.

“Of course,” Eduardo says. Mark doesn’t offer, because he would be very unhelpful and they all know it.

 

Sean wanders through the grounds with a flashlight and tries not to think about what he just saw.

It’s not that he thinks it’s wrong on a religious level – Sean only cares for religion if it suits his needs – and it’s not that he thinks it’s gross, though it _so_ totally is.

It’s the fact that Mark was so thoroughly enjoying himself. It’s the fact that Mark was looking at Eduardo with what Sean can only describe as fondness during dinner. It’s the fact that when Sean stepped away he heard Eduardo admit that he loved Mark.

And it’s the fact that if this ever gets out, Facebook will be ruined. Mark will be ruined. Their family will be ruined.

Cursing, Sean picks his way down the slope to the lake. He’s shining the flashback back and forth across the ground and it takes him a minute to realize it’s illuminating two dark figures.

The twins?

He rushes forward, and then realizes that Erica – the twins’ governess – is face down on the ground and someone is fucking her ruthlessly.

The exact moment Sean realizes this, he drops the electric torch. The rapist – he’s sure that’s what it was, sure because he can hear Erica’s quiet sobs – darts away. Sean hears the rustling of the grass but does nothing, frozen with indecision.

For once he does the right thing.

“Miss Albright?” he asks hesitantly. She begins to sob in earnest now, and he picks up the flashlight and approaches her. She’s smoothing down her dress and is very, very pale. Sean crouches down about a foot away from her. “Miss Albright, are you…” No, of course she’s not alright. “We have to report this to the police,” he says instead. “Come back to the house.”

Erica nods, mute, and finally stands. Sean makes sure not to touch her, unsure why he’s being so careful but incredibly sure that it’s the right thing to do.

“Have… have they found the twins?” Erica asks, her voice hoarse.

“No,” Sean says. “Everyone is out looking for them though.” He offers her the flashlight. “Come on, Miss Albright.”

 

Mark is waiting for them when they get back. He takes one look at Erica and scowls at Sean – Sean shakes his head and beckons Mark closer, bending down to whisper: “I need you to dial the police immediately.”

Mark vanishes and Sean guides Erica to a chair and offers her his handkerchief. He wonders absently where Mr. Thiel is.

“Miss Albright,” he says awkwardly, “do you know… do you know who it was that hurt you this way?” He feels like a terrible bully, asking her this: her eyes are huge and tears are trickling down her cheeks, and her lovely brown hair is mussed.

Erica shakes her head and only cries harder when he asks again. He stays with her, building a fire and offering her a glass of wine, until the constable comes. He waits outside, hearing Erica’s wails and feeling like his ribs are made from ice, an ice that somehow burns and aches.

When the Constable emerges, Sean taps him on the shoulder.

“You were the one that found her?” The man, who is heavily mustached, asks.

“Yes,” Sean says.

“Did you manage to see the man’s face?”

Sean thinks back to the way the man’s hips were moving, and then thinks back to how Eduardo’s hips were moving against Mark’s ass, and swallows.

“It was Eduardo Saverin.”

 

When Eduardo comes back, carrying one twin – Tyler – on his back and clutching the hand of the other one, Cameron, Mark is waiting for him in a way eerily reminiscent of earlier tonight.

“Run,” is what Mark says as soon as Eduardo sets Tyler down. “Wardo, someone raped Erica and they think you did it and you need to run.” The words are so fast that Eduardo can barely understand him.

“That’s ridiculous,” Eduardo says after a minute, because Mark can’t be serious. “Who would believe them? Why do they think that?”

Mark’s mouth is set in a deeply unhappy line. ‘They have an ‘anonymous’ source. Please, Wardo. Go. You’re a commoner – they won’t listen to you. You’re already guilty in their eyes.”

“In everyone’s?” Eduardo demands. “Even your family’s?”

Mark looks away. Eduardo bites his lip to keep from crying and steps forward. “Even yours?”

“No!” Mark says, and he tugs Eduardo forward by the wrist, meeting his eyes. Mark’s are an intense, unnerving blue. Eduardo realizes that he’s never seen Mark _angry_ before. “I know… I know you would never do that.”

There are footsteps. Eduardo steps back from Mark and they turn to see the constable and Mr. Zuckerberg heading towards them. Sean is following them, his mouth set in a thin line.

“Mr. Saverin?” the constable asks. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“He didn’t do it,” Mark says immediately, drawing himself up to his full height and glaring at the constable. Eduardo notices Sean shoot Mark a strained look.

“I have to ask him some questions,” the constable informs Mark, who has moved between Eduardo and the constable and is still scowling, hands clenched by his sides.

“He didn’t do _anything_ ,” Mark insists, sounding incredibly frustrated that he can’t make them understand. “I vouch for him.”

“Mark,” Eduardo says, voice shaking. “It’s okay.” He steps forward, pauses, and asks: “Can someone tell my mother what’s going on?”

“Yes,” Mr. Zuckerberg says, and Eduardo nods at him, thankful, before allowing himself to be lead away.

 

“Mr. Saverin,” the constable says, “did you or did you not rape Erica Albright?”

“I didn’t!” Eduardo exclaims. “I haven’t even talked to her.”

“But you know who she is.”

“We live on the same piece of property currently, and Mark mentioned her to me, so yes, I do. Also, she was at dinner.”

“Where were you while she was being raped?”

“Looking for the twins. I found them, in case no one told you.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“No,” Eduardo says, desperate. “No, we all split up to look for them.”

“So no one can verify that you did not rape Miss Albright?” the constable asks, and Eduardo bites the inside of his cheek.

“Ask her!” he demands, and then he pauses. “Is she saying I did it? She’s lying!”

“No. We can’t get a word out of her. But we have an anonymous tip.”

Eduardo thinks back to the strained look Sean had given them, thinks back to the footsteps and the creaking of the open door while he fucked Mark, and wonders how he could have been so foolish, so naïve, as to think that Sean Parker was his friend.

“I didn’t do it,” he insists, trying not to cry. “I swear on all that is holy, I will swear on the Bible or the Torah, I didn’t do it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t believe you,” the constable says, and Eduardo can only stare at him, utterly defeated.

 

The constable escorts Eduardo out of the house in handcuffs, and Mark is waiting for them in the courtyard.

“He didn’t do it!” Mark says, and then he starts to yell. _“He didn’t do it!”_

“Stop shouting,” The constable orders. “This is justice.”

Mark darts forward and clutches at Eduardo, who leans into him for the briefest of moments. Mark’s arms encircle him, holding him close, and Eduardo feels Mark’s chest shaking and can only cry into his shoulder.

“Come back,” Mark whispers to him. “Come back to me.”

Then the constable is leading him away and Sean is tugging Mark off of him, and the constable is placing him in the police automobile and his mother is there, banging on the window and screaming “ _Liar!_ ” at the constable until someone restrains her.

The car starts and Mark runs forward and presses a hand to the glass of the window and Eduardo kisses the glass from the other side, and then they begin to drive. Eduardo watches Mark through the dirty glass, watches until he’s out of sight, crying too hard to see anything clearly.

 

“Mark,” Sean says after they take Eduardo away, after Mark is sitting on the steps of the house and staring blankly into space. “ _Mark.”_

Mark does not stir, does not look at him, does not even blink. The hazy light from the courtyard catches something on his cheeks. With a jolt, Sean realizes that Mark is crying. He wonders if Mark has noticed.

“Mark, don’t cry,” Sean says after a moment.

If Mark is crying, that meant that Eduardo meant something to him. That perhaps Mark loved him.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Mark’s voice is rough and carefully blank, but he’s shaking and still does not look at Sean. “You told them that it was Eduardo.”

“I – it _was_ him, Mark,” Sean says after a minute.

“No,” Mark says, “it wasn’t, and you know it.”

“Do you know how bad this will look for the company?” Sean demands, trying to dodge the blow he knows is coming. “Don’t you see? It’s better this way.”

“Oh?” Mark stands. “Is that why you did it?” Sean thinks of the library, only a few hours before, where he had seen Mark kissing Eduardo while being fucked by him, and swallows.

Mark’s looking at Sean, finally, and his mouth is a wreck from being bitten and his blue eyes are watery and there are tears halfway down his cheeks, but his jaw is set. “Is that really why you did it?” He stands up and starts towards Sean, eyes a strange, hot blue and fists clenched at his sides. Sean remembers teaching Mark how to throw a punch and swallows.

“I was trying to do the right thing,” he says quietly, desperately.

“I thought you just said it was a business decision.”

“It was… but…”

“Don’t lie to me,” Mark says. “Don’t tell me you did it because it was _business_.” He spits the last word and Sean is abruptly terrified of how much Mark sees, how much he knows.

“Mark… Mark, you’re my brother. I was trying to protect you.”

“Don’t!” Mark snaps, and he has wrapped his arms around himself, like he’s trying to shield himself, like he’s trying not to fall apart. “You… you ruined it,” he whispers after a moment, and he’s not really talking to Sean. “I’ll never see him again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens to Mark and Eduardo when they are apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had two great beta's working on this but then life came up so I lost their notes so the rest of these chapters are unedited. Sorry about that.  
> Warnings for this chapter include canon-typical violence, war-violence, explicit sexual content and too much angst.  
> Again it switches between 1998 and 1938-1940.

_1998 and 1938-1940_

_America, 1998_

“Eduardo was in prison for about three years,” Sean is telling the pretty reporter, who is nodding. “But the War –”

“World War II you mean?” The reporter asks, and Sean nods and pushes his glasses further up his nose. He has always forgotten that he has to clarify what he means, that this generation has seen many wars, that WWII is not just ‘the War’ anymore, just as WWI is not ‘the Great War.’

“Yes, World War II. Britain officially entered the war around 1939, but we began to prepare our army in 1937. So Eduardo was given a choice: stay in prison or join the army. He did so in 1938, and he landed in France in late 1939 or early 1940.”

The reporter is nodding, but history doesn’t sell so she changes the subject. “You’ve been compared to John Hughes and to _A Separate Peace_. Do you see this as a coming of age novel?”

“Certainly,” Sean says. “It’s most definitely about the loss of innocence, about mistakes, about greed and jealousy and betrayal. But it’s also a fantastic love story.”

“Mr. Parker, you’ve mentioned that this story is autobiographical. How true is that?”

“Almost everything that happens in the book is true.” Sean says quietly. _Almost_.

*

_Northern France, 1940_

Eduardo has been at war for almost seven months now. He doesn’t like to remember this, doesn’t like to remember all he has seen and all he has learned. It’s a unique thing, to be a soldier, to wake up every morning and wonder if today is the day you’re going to die. It’s a unique thing to wake up every morning and wonder how many men you will kill.

His battalion is scattered along the countryside; they got separated during a battle and the second in command died. Now it’s just Eduardo, Chris, and Dustin, and they’re heading west to meet up with everyone in a town called Dunkirk.

Chris is young and poor and charming, and Dustin is young and poor and hilarious. Eduardo likes them, but keeps to himself, afraid to get too attached. They don’t bother him very much, maybe because they feel the same way. They do respect him though, for reasons he’ll never understand.

“’Wardo,” Dustin asks, early on in their trek across the French countryside, “Why d’you talk like…like one of the uppercrust?”

“I attended Cambridge,” answers Eduardo, trying not to flinch because of the nickname. He thinks of Mark.

“Why aren’t you an officer then?” Chris asks. He’s bringing up the rear and shouldn’t be talking, should be alert, but they haven’t seen anyone for hours and Eduardo understands curiosity, understands wanting to know the men you might die with.

“Criminals aren’t allowed officer training,” Eduardo answers shortly, and listens to their silence as they try to process that. Eduardo feels like he’s misrepresenting himself, like he should explain. “They gave me a choice,” he says after a moment. “Stay in prison or join the army.”

He’s in the middle of their little line, so Chris and Dustin can’t exchange furtive glances without him knowing, but he can hear the weight of their silence, can see Chris’s shoulders tense.

“What did you do?” Dustin asks finally, because Chris is tactful and would never ask, and Dustin is immune to social restrictions.

“I didn’t,” Eduardo’s voice is cold. “I didn’t do anything. It was mistake.”

They leave him alone after that, maybe because they respect him, maybe because he’s not really present.

His thoughts are always with Mark. He wonders what Mark is doing right now, what he’s wearing, if he’s cut his hair, if he’s taking care of himself. He thinks of the time in the library and replays it a thousand times, a million times, in his mind.

But most of all, he replays the time they met at the café and the look in Mark’s eyes when he said, _Come back to me. Promise me you will._

*

_England, 1938_

After three years in prison and six months in military training, it is strange to walk down a street and be treated with respect.

People see Eduardo’s army uniform and doff their caps to him or give him deep nods. When he reaches the café he’s supposed to be meeting Mark at, someone even holds the door open for him.

Eduardo nods to them awkwardly and tries not to project _I am a criminal._ He thinks it works rather well because they let him pass and then he’s in a café, a real café, for the first time in over three years. He can smell proper coffee brewing and there are biscuits in the display case, and actual waiters and waitresses, and normal people.

There are white table clothes and real silverware. There’s soft jazz music playing and proper lighting.

It’s all very civilized.

It’s all very terrifying. Eduardo has no idea what to do or how to act. He feels exceptionally alien, like free, civilian England is another country entirely.

A familiar mop of curls catches his attention. Mark is there, looking strangely grown up in a doctor’s coat.

Eduardo stops in the middle of the hall and lets himself just stare at Mark. His eyes linger on Mark’s jawline, on the sharp jut of his cheekbones and his nervous hands that are splayed on the table. Eduardo thinks back to when one of those hands was wrapped around Eduardo’s wrist, and shudders.

Mark’s tucked away in the corner and fidgeting, but when he sees Eduardo he stands, abrupt and awkward as usual.

Eduardo crosses the floor and wonders if he’s dreaming, because time has slowed and Mark’s eyes are just as blue as ever, his hair is just as curly as ever. The difference is that he looks tired, that there’s faint stubble decorating his jaw, and that he’s smiling – truly smiling – at Eduardo.

Eduardo halts before the table and just stands there, unsure what to do.

“Hello,” he says after a minute. There are a million things and a thousand words and not one of them is enough to convey how he’s feeling, what he wants, and how much Mark means to him.

Hello will have to do.

“Eduardo,” Mark murmurs, and Eduardo tries not to shiver.

They stand there for a full minute before Mark asks if he wants to sit, and Eduardo replies _of course_ and removes his cap.

He catches Mark’s aborted twitch and raises an eyebrow at him.

“You…you look different,” Is what Mark says, after staring at him some more. “Skinner, of course, but…”

“The army cuts your hair,” Eduardo says softly. “It will grow back.”

Mark nods. Eduardo wonders how they have come to this, stilted conversation in the middle of a crowded café. He wonders if Mark regrets coming to see him, if Mark regrets being with him. He tries not to mind.

“You look different too. Are you…are you a doctor?”

“Surgeon. Surgeon-intern, anyway,” Mark says, and makes a small, unhappy sound. “I have to be back at the hospital in half an hour.”

“Oh god, that’s…” _That’s thirty minutes. I haven’t seen you in three and a half years and that’s not enough._

“I know,” Mark says when the silence is pulled taunt. “I’m so…I’m sorry, Eduardo.”

“No,” Eduardo says, because Mark has a job and that’s…unexpected, but also really good. Mark has a job. Mark is an adult.

He tries not to feel jealous of Mark’s uniform, of Mark’s knowledge. He hopes to become a doctor, or perhaps a medic. One day.

Mark shifts, bumping his knee against Eduardo’s.

“How is Facebook?” He asks after a minute, because this is incredibly awkward. He moves his knee away from Mark’s, tries to ignore the heat in Mark’s eyes.

“I left Facebook, after Sean got you arrested. I haven’t been in contact with any of my family.” Mark breaks off, shaking his head.

“Mark,” Eduardo says after a minute, trying not to gape at him, trying to breathe, to concentrate on something other than the burning behind his eyes, “you don’t…owe me anything.”

Mark stares at him.  “Eduardo, if they had let me visit you – I would have been there every day. Instead I tried to clear your name with the police, but I’m young and they didn’t…It didn’t work…I’m sorry.” His eyes are as intense as they were the night Eduardo was arrested, and Eduardo fidgets, unsure why, unsure what Mark means. Is this an apology? A prelude to saying _I’m sorry, we can’t work?_

“It’s…it’s not your fault.” Eduardo manages. “But Mark,” he has to look away, has to force the words out past the lump in his throat, “if all we have rests on thirty minutes in a library three and a half years ago, and you’re throwing away everything for me…”

“Look at me,” Mark demands.

“I don’t know, I don’t think…”

“Wardo,” Mark says and Eduardo shudders, shuts his eyes. “Wardo, look at me.”

Mark has to say it twice more before Eduardo obeys, trying not to cry. Mark’s eyes are a furious blue and his mouth is bitten-red, like always, and he’s perfect.

“Come back,” Mark says softly, and he moves until he’s cupping Eduardo’s cheek. “Come back to me.”

Eduardo tries not to melt into Mark’s touch and fails.

“Wardo,” Mark murmurs. “Come back to me. Promise me you will.”

“I promise,” Eduardo murmurs, brushing Mark’s palm with his lips, public be damned.

“Come on,” Mark says after a minute. “Let’s go someplace else.”

*

_Northern France, 1940_

“C’mon, Wardo, get up,” Dustin calls, and Eduardo sighs and drags his eyes open. It’s hardly dawn, but it’s time to move. They bedded down in an old barn the night before and none of them want to get caught in it.

Eduardo relieves himself and then meets Dustin and Chris at the front of the barn, Chris peering down at their map.

“How are we doing?” Eduardo asks, and Chris makes a face that doesn’t at all go with his polite smile and blond hair.

“Good,” he says after a minute, “but when I was keeping watch last night I saw planes drop bombs ahead of us.”

“The fires should be out by now,” Dustin volunteers. Chris doesn’t say anything.

“Should we find another route?” He asks, looking at Eduardo. Eduardo shrugs. He doesn’t want to responsible for anyone but himself, doesn’t want to make any decisions.

“Yeah,” Dustin says, and Eduardo nods.

They set off, Chris in the front this time, Dustin in the back, and Eduardo in the middle. After the first mile he gives up trying to pay attention and begins composing a letter to Mark in his mind. He keeps Mark’s letters in his breast pocket, and rereads them often, but has lost his writing set and can’t write Mark back.

_Dearest Mark._

_Mark, my love._

_Dear Mark._

*

_England, 1938_

Mark meanders through the crowd. Many of the people are also wearing the uniform Eduardo is, and it comforts Eduardo, makes him feel normal. He follows Mark. They end up at an alleyway, set a ways off from the street.

Mark turns to look at Eduardo, and his eyes are hesitant and his expression is pleading. His shoulders are curled in slightly, just as they were when he was admitting everything in the library, and abruptly Eduardo _wants_.

“Mark,” he mutters, and then he’s pushing Mark against the alley wall and kissing him.

“Wardo,” Mark breathes out inanely and then it’s mostly teeth and tongue, a desperate, frenzied kiss, Mark gripping Eduardo’s shoulders, Eduardo pinning Mark against the wall with his hips.

“Want you,” Eduardo mumbles, and Mark nods feverishly and he’s unzipping Eduardo’s pants and bringing out his cock, which is embarrassingly hard already.

“Fuck,” Eduardo mutters, sagging against Mark while Mark jerks him off. “Mark, that’s…”

Mark looks at him and grins, and then says: “I want you to remember this.”  
“I…I will,” Eduardo promises, but then Mark turns them so Eduardo is against the wall and then he _drops to his knees_ and takes Eduardo’s cock in his mouth.

“Mark… _fuck_ ,” Eduardo says, because this is so much better than it was when he imagined it in his bathtub, three and a half years ago.

Mark looks up at him, managing to look smug even when his mouth is stretched around Eduardo’s cock, and Eduardo tries not to thrust into his mouth, prompting Mark to make an impatient noise and to urge him on by curling his fingers around Eduardo’s hips.

“Mark,” Eduardo whines, and his hips jerk forward, the head of his cock bumping the back of Mark’s throat. Mark just _takes_ it, which is so unbelievably incredible, and Eduardo keeps thrusting because he can’t stop himself.

Mark is doing unbelievable, positively illegal things with his tongue, like tonguing Eduardo’s slit or the underside of his cock, and his fingers creep up to press at Eduardo’s balls through his trousers. Eduardo bites his lip to keep from yelling, because they are in public and this is the dirtiest thing that he’s ever done.

“Mark,” he moans, “Mark, I’m going to…”

Mark just sucks him deeper and stares at him and Eduardo stares back, trying not to blink, trying to memorize the sight of Mark on his knees with his lips stretched around Eduardo’s cock, but he comes so hard that he has to shut his eyes, banging his head against the wall and trying to avoid moaning too loudly.

Mark pulls off when he’s done and Eduardo manages to open his eyes to see Mark licking his lips, looking truly debauched.

_“Mark_ ,” he murmurs and Mark moves forward so Eduardo can wrap an arm around him, unzipping his pants with his free hand and pulling out Mark’s cock.

“Wardo,” Mark chokes out as Eduardo begins to jerk him off, going slowly and using Mark’s precome as a lubricant. “Wardo, god, I need you,”

“I’m here for you,” Eduardo promises. He begins to jerk off Mark faster and Mark surges forward for a kiss just as messy and desperate as their first one.

“Mark,” Eduardo murmurs in Mark’s ear, “Mark, I’m going to come back for you and I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk, I’m going to lick you open and inhale you and carry your smell, your taste, with me forever.”

Mark groans, screwing up his eyes and thrusting wildly into Eduardo’s hand.

“Yeah, c’mon baby,” Eduardo murmurs and he twists his hand at the head of Mark’s cock and Mark comes messily all over his fist with a moan that Eduardo has to swallow with a kiss.

Eduardo wipes his hands on his trousers and on the wall and Mark kisses him apologetically, mouth quirking to the right. Then he checks his watch.

“My bus will be here in about five minutes,” He says after a minute, upset, and Eduardo nods and grips his hand as they begin to walk to the main street. It’s crowded, with people milling to and fro and cars trying to get by. Eduardo feels alien, once again.

At the entrance of the alley they pause and kiss again, and it’s a desperate kiss, with Mark throwing his arms around Eduardo’s neck and Eduardo hugging Mark close because this might be the last time they ever get to do this.

“I love you,” Mark whispers against his mouth, and Eduardo closes his eyes because that’s the first time Mark’s ever said it to him; he’s written it, signed his letters with it, but he’s never said it.

When they break apart, Mark’s eyes are over bright and he rummages in his breast pocket for a moment.

“A nurse I work with, Marilyn – she’s a friend of mine. She has a cottage by the coast, and she says we can use it when you’re next on leave.”

They walk towards the bus, no longer holding hands, and the distance is terrible and impossible and immense, and Eduardo wants to kiss away Mark’s badly hidden tears. He knows that they’re not the only ones doing this, not the only ones going through this – a woman is wailing into a man’s arms next to them, and Eduardo winces for her.

“Here,” Mark says when they reach the bus, pressing a photo of the cottage into Eduardo’s hands. “Something to think about while you’re away.”

He tears himself away after that, and Eduardo knows that it’s because if Mark doesn’t move he’s going to cry harder, or blurt something out, or kiss Eduardo, and Eduardo understands completely.

It still hurts.

“I love you,” he says as Mark clambers onto the bus. It’s brown and metallic and Eduardo thinks of the car they took him away from him and bites his lip, tries to focus on Mark. The crowd is jostling him, people leaping onto the bus, but Mark stands his ground.

“Come back,” Mark orders, but he’s shaking.

“I will,” Eduardo promises, trying hard not to tear up. The bus starts moving, slow, and he runs after it, Mark staring at him with a desperate, anguished look on his face. “Mark, I promise, I will, I love you!”

The bus picks up speed and then it pulls away, and Eduardo cannot follow it, even though he tries. Mark blows him a kiss. Eduardo is left standing in the middle of the street, alone even amongst the milling crowd, and places a hand over his heart.

_*_

_Northern France, 1940_

_Dear Mark,_ Eduardo composes in his head, _a week ago I got shot. Dear Mark, the food is terrible. Dear Mark, I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m terrified. Dear Mark, yesterday I slept in a barn. Dear Mark, do you still think about the library?_

“How are you, Eduardo?” Chris asks, interrupting Eduardo’s mental reverie. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

They’re still walking, trooping across the French countryside and zig-zagging to avoid buildings. Every now and then a plane flies overhead, and they drop flat to the ground, trying to blend in with the tall spring grass, hoping the plane won’t be the last thing they see.

“Oh,” Eduardo says after a minute, “I’m sorry. I’m just…” He doesn’t even have to finish his sentence.

“I know,” Dustin chimes in. “Me too.”

“You don’t even know what he was going to say,” Chris interjects, and Eduardo can _feel_ Dustin’s eye roll.

“’I’m just’ everything right now.” Dustin rants. “Horny, hungry, tired, thirsty, annoyed, exhausted, you name it.”

“I like how horny was first on your list,” Chris says after a minute. Eduardo smiles to himself.

“Listen, catholic-boy,” Dustin says. Dustin is Jewish, like Mark, but is somehow red headed. “My religion has it right: we _know_ sex is a wonderful thing. And the first thing I want to do when I get home is find a beautiful women and bury my face in her tits.”

Chris’s ears are bright red. Eduardo sighs to himself, because he’s seen the way Chris looks at Dustin, the way Chris tugs a blanket over Dustin whenever he’s a asleep or offers Dustin his food when Dustin is hungry. Catholicism might not like sex, it’s true, but they really don’t like homosexuality – or what Dustin would call _faggots._

“What about you?” Dustin asks after a minute, because he likes to talk and Chris likes to humor him. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?”

“See my family,” Chris says after a minute. “Have a proper cup of coffee.”

“And you, ‘Wardo?”

“I’m going to the coast to see a good friend of mine,” Eduardo says after a minute. Mark is so much more than a friend, but he can’t say that. It still feels wrong to mislabel him like that, to reduce their relationship to a simple friendship.

“What about your family?” Chris asks after a minute.

“Where are you from, anyway?” Dustin demands. “Eduardo’s not a British name.”

“No,” Eduardo agrees. “It’s not. I was born in Surrey, but my father is from Brazil and my mother lived there for a number of years, which is how they met. My father died before I was born, so my mother returned to England.”

“Oh,” Dustin says. “But…how’d you go to Cambridge, then?”

“My mother’s employer was very wealthy,” Eduardo answers. It hurts to think about the Zuckerbergs, hurts to think that they would so casually throw him to the wolves. “He paid for my education.”

“So why not go see your mother?” Chris asks, because Eduardo’s is sharp and he knows to change the subject.

“She died,” Eduardo mutters. “While I was in prison.”

They stop talking after that because they have to navigate crossing a river, and it takes forever to find a bridge, and when they do finally cross they wander into an orchard.

“Maybe there are apples,” Dustin says hopefully, completely ignoring that it’s May and Apples grow mostly in the fall.

“Dustin, you idiot,” Chris says, about to inform them off this – and then they see the first body.

At first, all they can see is a pair of sensible black shoes, but when Eduardo edges forward, it’s clear that there’s a schoolgirl lying in the orchard, dead.

And she’s not alone.

“Oh my God,” Dustin whispers, even as Chris mutters, “Lord protect us.” Eduardo doesn’t say anything.

There are forty or so school girls – only children, their hair tied with ribbons and their eyes shut – and two nuns, also dead. They’re all lying in a neatly organized row, and Eduardo stares at them, because he can’t process what has happened here.

Faintly he hears the sound of someone retching.

_Dear Mark, believe me when I say this I do not mean this badly, but this is the first and only time I am glad you are not with me._

*

_England, 1940_

 

Eduardo has been gone for a year and a half. Mark knows this because he keeps track and writes down major events, like when Eduardo wrote him to tell him they were going to France.

Mark keeps busy, of course. He’s no longer an intern, which he sometimes regrets, because being a surgeon during wartime is terrible. Every time Marilyn debriefs him about the patient he’s about to operate on, he wonders if it’s Eduardo. Every time he sees the hospital roster, he checks it for _E. Saverin_. Every time a dead body is carried away, Mark feels both failure and relief; failure, because he couldn’t save them; relief, because it’s not Eduardo.

He writes letters to Eduardo at least twice a week, telling Eduardo about his day, about the hospital, about Marilyn and her fiancé, a bloke named Divya. He talks about his landlord and his appallingly small flat. He talks about the coast and everything the radio says. He talks about how much he misses Eduardo, but refrains from mentioning anything explicit.

His most recent letter reads like this.

_Eduardo,  
Today I operated on a man and removed three bullets from him. I’m amazed that he’s still alive, though I don’t know if he’ll be thanking me, because he’ll never walk again._

_I haven’t been in contact with my family but Sean got my address somehow and keeps sending me letters, telling me that he must see me. Apparently Facebook has failed without me and he’s become a magazine editor and somewhat of a writer. What a surprise. I never saw him as a writer._

_Don’t worry, I’m not going to answer him or let him come see me. He’s ruined enough of our lives._

_I love you. I’ll wait for you._

_Please come back to me._

_Mark._

 

It’s hard, not knowing what’s happening. Mark knows that Eduardo could already be dead, could be another corpse staring blankly at the sky. He wonders if Eduardo has been shot at, if he’s been hurt, and hopes that if so, he goes to a proper doctor. Mark doesn’t qualify to be an army doctor, something that frustrates him without end. He knows that most army doctors are good, it’s just that none of them are as good as _he_ is.

Mark wonders about Eduardo late at night, when he can’t sleep and he’s clutching a pillow and pretending it’s Eduardo that’s in his arms. Mark wonders about Eduardo in the holy silences before his operations, when he has to force every thought out of his mind except the mantra of _I will save you, I will fix you_ and the running dialogue of what tools to use, what body part that is, what stitch will work the best.

Mark thinks of Eduardo all the time and loves all the time, and every stitch he uses to sew a patient back up is a stitch he uses to mend his fragile heart. Because while he knows that people think he’s emotionless, or an asshole, he loves Eduardo and always has, and the idea that Eduardo could be taken from him, _again_ , at any moment, is almost too much for him to bear.

So Mark thinks, and works, and loves, and waits.

*

_Northern France, 1940_

Nights blend into days. Days blend into weeks. They trek across the countryside and meet up briefly with other lost men, other soldiers, but they never linger.

Eduardo composes letter after letter in his mind. He lost his writing kit in the battle that separated his battalion.

_Mark. The story can resume. Our story can resume. I can resume._

He listens to Dustin and Chris argue over where to sleep that night or what to eat for breakfast or if it’s wrong to steal eggs when they’re here to liberate the country.

_Mark. Our story will resume._

He pictures Mark, perhaps in his dingy flat listening to the radio, or maybe on the beach staring towards France. Eduardo wonders if he is facing north right now, if he and Mark are facing each other, if they are watching the same moon or if they are beneath the same merciless sun.

_I will again become what I was before betrayal and war torn us apart. I will become the gentle, carefree man who was in love with you, who walked to your house even after sending you a filthy letter by mistake, who made love to you in the library. I will become that man for you._

“Do you think hell is like this?” Dustin asks one day, and Chris stares at him.

“Your religion doesn’t even have a hell,” Eduardo points out, before he can stop himself.

“How’d you know that?” Dustin demands.

“My friend is Jewish,” Eduardo mutters after a minute. “I learned about it from him.”

“I think hell would be a lot worse,” Chris says, rescuing Eduardo once again.

“ _Nothing_ could be worse than this.” Dustin exclaims empathetically. “I would rather be in hell that march across France to save them from the Germans. I would rather be in prison.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Eduardo corrects him absently. He thinks about Mark’s latest letter, talking about the blitz and how it’s affecting Britain, London in particular.

“Oh,” Dustin says after a minute. “I forgot, sorry. You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“Hm?” Eduardo asks. He ducks under a tree branch. “Yes. I mean, it’s not so bad I suppose, but at least here you get to see the sun. You get fresh air.”

“I would miss that,” Dustin agrees finally. He lapses into silence, probably debating prison or hell, and they continue on.

_Mark._ Eduardo thinks to himself as dusk falls. Fighter jets, far away, shine like shooting stars as they are shot down. _I will return. Find you, love you, marry you, and live without shame._

They pass by a bombed out factory of some sort, the fires still burning, the light flickering oddly over Chris and Dustin’s faces.

_Mark. Some places accept people like us. In fact, Germany used too before Herr Hitler came to power. We could go to such a place, live together, be happy._

They walk all night, because the buildings are becoming more frequent and it’s not safe to sleep. The fighter jets grow brighter as they grow closer.

_Mark. I love you so dearly. I will come back to you._

 

_Dunkirk, 1940_

 

They reach Dunkirk just as the evacuation is happening. It is Eduardo who notices, announcing: “I can smell the sea” and stumbling ahead, leaving Chris and Dustin to follow him.

A hundred thousand men are swarming on the beach, and a hundred thousand horses are being shot even as Eduardo watches. Boats crowd the bay, equipment is everywhere, and there’s a frenzied desperation to everyone’s actions.

“It’s like something out of the bible,” Chris mutters finally.

“Jesus,” Dustin says, and Chris shoots him a look because Dustin doesn’t believe in Jesus.

Eduardo doesn’t say anything. Instead he strides forward and taps the nearest man on the shoulder.

“What’s going on here?” He demands.

“Evacuation,” the man answers promptly. “Starts tomorrow or late tonight. You’ll be told, don’t worry.” He strides off, leaving Eduardo staring after him.

“What did he say?” Chris demands.

“We’re…they’re evacuating us,” Eduardo answers slowly. “We’re going home. Tonight, or tomorrow.”

 

Dustin stumbles off to find some alcohol and Chris wanders with Eduardo and tries to convince him to get his bullet hole looked at.

“It’s fine,” Eduardo insists. “There are other men with far more pressing problems, you know that.”

“You said it was infected,” Chris mutters. Eduardo self-consciously rests a hand against his bullet wound, at his solar plexus, though his shirt covers it.

“Not very badly,” Eduardo says. “It can wait ‘til tomorrow.”

Chris rolls his eyes. He and Dustin know that Eduardo wants to be doctor, so he trusts Eduardo on this.

They pass a choir of men singing a hymn – a sad, sad one, with Chris remarks as being inappropriate and Eduardo half smiles at him, because the music is how he feels. They see men stripping and jumping in the ocean to take a swim, perhaps their first swim in months or years.

“Do you swim?” Chris asks. Eduardo shrugs, thinks of the pond, thinks of how Mark dove into it.

“I never really learned,” he said. “My friend Mark tried to teach me. He’s a good swimmer. But…I don’t know. I don’t belong in the water.”

They stumble to the command station, waiting in line until someone will see them.

“Excuse me, Sir,” Chris says, “Private Chris Hughes and Private Eduardo Saverin here. We’ve only just arrived. Can you tell us what we’re supposed to do?”

“Wait,” says the man, who has a huge mustache that reminds Eduardo of the Constable.

“Where are the ships?” Chris asks after a moment.

“A few made it in yesterday but the Luftwaffe blew them to buggery. We lost five hundred men when they sank the Endurance. And high command in its infinite wisdom is denying us air cover. It’s a disgrace, it’s a fucking disaster.”

“The thing is,” Eduardo cuts in, desperate, unable to stop himself. “I’m expected back, you see.”

The Officer rounds on him. “There’s over three hundred thousand men on this beach, private. So you’ll have to wait your turn. Just be grateful that you’re not wounded, we’ve had orders to leave the wounded behind.”

Eduardo stares at him. Chris has to tug on his arm and guide him away.

“How did you know?” Chris asks, after a minute. “How did you know to not get your wound looked at?”

“I didn’t,” Eduardo answers, honest. “But I guess I’ll have to wait for tomorrow, won’t I?”

“You’re not going to tell them?” Chris demands. “What if you get sick?”

“ _I have to come back_ ,” Eduardo snarls, frustrated. Chris just doesn’t understand. “There’s someone waiting for me.”

“Alright,” Chris says after a minute. “Take it easy.”

“I need a drink,” Eduardo says. “Dustin was right.” He feels hysterical, feels an ache beneath his breastbone, feels desperate. When will he come home? Will Mark wait for him or will he think that Eduardo is dead?

He leaves Chris on the beach and goes into a house, rummaging through the cabinets, unable to find a drink of any sort. It’s dry, all dry, and Eduardo swallows a sob and wanders into another room, where some soldiers are watching a movie.

A beautiful woman is kissing a curly haired man. She draws back from him and smiles, and then kisses him again, tenderly.

Eduardo buries his face in his hands, trying not to think of Mark and failing.

“Wardo, c’mon,” Chris says, having found him.

 

They wander through the city. Each step is impossible; Eduardo does it anyway. He can’t believe that he’s come this far, that he’s made it, and now he’s leaving again.

“This looks like a store,” Chris says, who can apparently read French. “Wait here.”

Eduardo sits down on the curb. After a moment he realizes that Sean Parker has joined him.

“I have to get back to him,” Eduardo explains. There are too many words, but they aren’t enough. Sean just nods understandingly. “He loves me,” Eduardo tries. “And I love him. We don’t care what you think.”

“I know,” Sean tells him.

“He’s waiting for me,” Eduardo tells him. Sean smiles.

 

 

“Wardo?” Chris asks. Eduardo is sitting on the curb, conversing with air. “Who are you talking to?”

Eduardo ignores him.

“Wardo, you feeling alright?” Chris asks, trying to keep his voice calm.

Eduardo turns to look at him and smiles brightly. The sadness in his eyes are gone. It breaks Chris’s heart. “Never better!” Eduardo says.  He pauses for a minute. “Say, are you ever going to tell Dustin how you feel about him?”

_What the fuck._ Chris feels the blood drain from his face. Eduardo had said that loudly; thankfully no one was listening.

“You’re drunk,” he manages, except he knows it isn’t true.

Eduardo laughs. “M’not,” he insists. “Couldn’t find anything to drink, you know that.”

“Fuck.” This time Chris says it instead of just thinking it. He moves forward, places his hand on Eduardo’s forehead. Eduardo lets him, docile and content.

Eduardo is impossibly warm – fever warm.

“Wardo, you have a fever,” Chris tells him.

 “What are you talking about?” Eduardo demands. “I’m fine. C’mon, I know a place.”

“But you’ve never been here!” Chris says, desperate, trying to make Eduardo see sense. Eduardo isn’t listening to him, still talking.

“It’s this lovely cottage…a friend of Mark’s is letting us use it. In the picture it’s white with blue shutters.”

“Where is it?” Chris asks, catching up with Eduardo. “This cottage?”

“The coast,” Eduardo answers him.

“In England?”

Eduardo turns to stare at him. “Of course it is, Chris, are you mad? Where else would it be?”

_Damnit. Damnit all to hell._

“Alright,” Chris says soothingly. “Alright. Where is it? Another block or so?”

Eduardo nods at this and sets off again. He’s stumbling and he’s grey, and Chris just knows that his wound is much worse than Eduardo was letting on, that it’s truly infected if Eduardo is this delirious.

They walk for two more blocks before Eduardo becomes upset.

“I can’t see!” He wails. “I can’t see if the shutters are blue!”

“Here it is,” Chris says, guiding Eduardo in with a hand on his arm. “C’mon, look how blue the shutters are. It’s exactly how you’ve described it.”

Eduardo allows himself to be lead in, through a couple rooms and down the stairs, to the cellar. There they find a place to sleep.

“Lie down,” Chris instructs and Eduardo obeys, shivering. Chris undoes his pack and drapes his blanket over Eduardo, something he’s done for Dustin a hundred times.

“Here,” Chris says. “Eat this.” He hands Eduardo a piece of bread and a piece of cheese. It’s not medicine but it’s food and maybe it will help.

Eduardo obeys, staring off into space. Chris watches him to make sure he eats all of it.

“Alright,” Chris says, trying to be calm. “Let’s sleep now, okay Wardo?”

Eduardo says nothing, but he blinks at Chris. Satisfied, Chris settles himself opposite Eduardo, propping himself up on his crossed arms.

He hears a scrape and then there is a small light; Eduardo has lit a match and is using it to stare intently at a packet of letters and a postcard. Chris realizes this must be the postcard that has the house on it.

“I love him,” Eduardo announces to the silence, the darkness. “I have to come back. He’s waiting for me.”

“I know,” Chris tells him, voice shaking.

“I’ve always kept him waiting,” Eduardo confesses, and his voice is so sad that Chris has to shut his eyes. “But I’ll see him soon. I have too. He’s waiting for me, and I promised that I’d come back.”

“Hush,” Chris tells him, fierce and jealous of this love that Eduardo has. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Eduardo lights another match.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles. “Just please wake me up before seven, alright? I have to see him. I have to see Mark.”

“Alright,” Chris promises.

“Thank you so much,” Eduardo mumbles. “You won’t here another word out of me, I promise.”

Eduardo falls asleep before the second match burns out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sean's viewpoint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> England, 1940. Serious warnings for rape culture, abuse, violence in this section.

_England, 1940, Three Weeks Earlier_

“Parker!” Sean looks up. His boss, Mr. Drummond is standing in the doorway, surveying him with a mixture of pride and exasperation. “What are you working on? You’ve already turned in your articles.”

“I’m writing a book,” Sean says simply, because he tries to always be honest now, and it’s not an unusual thing. He’s a writer. Writers write.

“Oh?” Drummond asks. “What about?”

“A boy who sees something he doesn’t understand,” Sean says after a minute. “But he thinks he does.”

“So, growing up,” Drummond says. Sean smiles at him and nods, because essentially that is what it’s about. Sean had just grown up a bit late. “What is it called?”

“Two Figures By a Fountain,” Sean answers.

“Good title,” Drummond says.

“Thank you, sir,” Sean says. He looks back at his typewriter and thinks of the one Mark had, of how Mark had cradled it to him after rushing away from the pond.

Drummond leaves. Sean loses himself in memories.

 

Facebook had, indeed, failed. Without Mark’s vision, they had no direction, and so they had drifted apart. It had been infuriating to try and explain what had happened to their members, to his family.

How could he explain that Mark loved Eduardo, loved him more than he loved his own family and that’s why he had abandoned them?

Sean had gotten a job as an assistant editor, though he still writes articles. He lives in a dingy flat and he keeps track of Mark, despite Mark’s best efforts to avoid him. He keeps sending Mark letters, to which there are no replies.

Sean had gone to see Mark at the hospital once and had seen him talking to a pretty black haired girl. Sean had seen them together and had hoped, stupidly, that perhaps Mark had moved on. Mark had smiled at her, but it wasn’t the same smile he used with Eduardo, and Sean’s hopes came crashing down.

Sean has also been keeping track of Eduardo, out of sense of duty and guilt more than anything else. Sometimes he lies awake a night and remembers what he saw and what he _didn’t_ see, and thinks how he could have been so wrong, so selfish.

Eduardo had gotten out of jail in ’38 and had been shipped over in ’39. He was in France right now, as far as Sean could tell.

 

Sean also writes Mark letters, tells him about how sorry he is, tries to fix his mistake in the only way he can.

 

_Mark,_

_Please don’t throw this away without reading it. I’m an assistant editor now, but I’m still writing articles. I really like to write._

_I know I have cost you your happiness, and I am truly sorry. No matter how hard I work, I can’t escape what I’ve done and what it meant, the full extent I’m only just beginning to grasp._

_I’ve heard that our troops are retreating from France. Hopefully that means that Eduardo can return to you._

_Mark, please write me back. I must see you._

_Your brother,_

_Sean._

 

Sean is aware of his own shortcomings, aware that he ruined Mark’s life, aware that he ruined Eduardo’s life and their only chance at happiness together. But he doesn’t quite understand.

He’s seeing a woman named Amelia ‘Amy’ Ritter, and he’s fond of her; maybe he even loves her; but he doesn’t know if he’d respond with the same devotion, the same heartbreak, that Mark did when Eduardo was taken away from him.

Sean likes to think that he’s a lone wolf, that he can be independent. He had expressed this thought to his mother once and she had smiled and patted his arm and said, _wolves are only as strong as their packs._

Sean doesn’t understand many things. He doesn’t fully understand love, how it can infect you and get inside your bones and make you act so irrationally. He doesn’t understand how it convinced his unemotional, unattached brother to sob like a broken thing when Eduardo had been taken away. He doesn’t understand why his parents had cried when they learned of Mrs. Saverin’s death. He doesn’t understand.

Sometimes, late at night when he can’t sleep, he thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to understand.

 

Amy and Sean are out to dinner when the German bombers strike.

“Sean!” Amelia yells as the power goes out. “Sean, Sean, where are you?”

“I’m here,” Sean says, groping in the dark for her. “Where are you?”

“I’m –”

Something huge and both silent and loud happens then, an explosion of some sort. Sean is thrown onto the ground. When he can stand again, he can see because of a fire burning in the corner of the room.

“Amy?!” He says. “ _Amy?”_

“Sean,” he hears after a minute. “I’m here, Sean.”

She is, indeed, here; trapped beneath a pile of rubble and laying in a puddle of shiny, dark liquid.

Sean crouches by her and holds her hand.

“Sean,” she says. “They bombed us.”

“Yes,” Sean agrees. “Hang on, alright? Help’s coming.”

Help isn’t coming, but he tells her that anyway, feeling tears prick the corner of his eyes. _Fuck._

“Sean,” Amy says. “You always blink three times when you lie.”

“I have dust in my eyes,” Sean says. “Help’s coming. Stay with me.”

“Alright,” Amy agrees. She reaches up to touch his face, wincing. “Tell me – did you ever fix your mistake?”

“No.” Sean admits. He had told her, once, that he had made a terrible mistake and that he was trying to fix it. She had later told him that his confession had made him terribly attractive, because too many people don’t fix their mistakes. “I’m still trying.”

“I know,” Amy whispers. “You’re such a good person.”

“So are you,” Sean says instead of denying it. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

“Do you love me?” Amy asks, her voice breaking.

Sean blinks back tears. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I do. I love you very much.”

“You promise?” Amy’s voice is fading.

“Yes,” Sean says simply, because he means it right now. He loves her; he wants her to stay here with him, to come back to him, to never leave him.

Amy smiles at him, looking serene. He smiles back at her, waits for her to blink. It takes him a moment to realize that she’s not breathing.

Shaking, he closes her eyes.

 

_Mark,_

_Today I lost somebody that I loved. I had only known her a short time._

_Her name was Amelia Ritter. I didn’t know that I loved her until I held her hand while she died. It was during the Blitz. I would have been happy with her, would have liked to marry her._

_Instead I’ll never see her again._

_I am beginning to understand what it feels like to lose someone you love. We – the family – suffered terribly when you left us, but this is different. I feel like a piece of me is missing._

_That being said, I am now beginning to understand what my actions meant, and what they cost you. I cannot believe my own selfishness and greed allowed me to ruin your happiness. I am so very sorry. Mark, you must know how sorry I am. Please communicate my apologies to Eduardo. I am going to try and clear his name._

_Please write back, Mark. I must see you._

_Your brother,_

_Sean._

 

In the weeks following Amy’s death, Sean tries to keep busy. Everyone has lost someone; Mark became a doctor while dealing with this pain.

(Sean is not sure what pain is worse: losing someone you love to death, or losing someone you love and knowing that they live, but that you can never see them again.)

 Following the evacuation of Dunkirk, the paper Sean works for starts printing an awful lot of propaganda. A photo and the accompanying article catch his eye while he’s editing.

 _Queen Elizabeth meets with Peter Thiel and his finance, Erica Albright_ , _at Mr. Thiel’s chocolate factory in Northern England this Monday. Mr. Thiel and Miss Albright are to be married on the 6 th of June._

“Oh my god,” Sean remarks to his empty office. “Oh my god. It was Thiel.”

 

Journalists are detectives, and Sean is not an assistant editor for nothing. He tracks down where Erica is living now and arrives there on a dreary Tuesday morning. Erica is still a governess, of course, and her mouth thins when she opens the door and sees him.  
“Mr. Parker,” she says instead of pretending she doesn’t recognize him – but Miss Albright had only ever acted with class and grace. Sean pushes his thick rimmed glasses further up on his nose and offers her a smile.

“Hello,” he says. “I was wondering if I could have a word?”

She looks reluctant; he does not blame her. He remembers when he found her, a pale, crying mess with crumpled skirts and acts of violence written all over her.

How strange it is that he had ruined Eduardo’s future, but that hers remained intact? And why had she not spoken up, why had she not denied that it was Eduardo?

But why, Sean chides himself, why did he think was alright to accuse Eduardo based on the way he saw Eduardo’s hips move, so many years before.

“Mr. Parker,” Erica repeats when she leads him into a sitting room. “How can I help you?”

“I heard you are still working as a governess,” Sean offers. “Where are the children?”

“They have music lessons,” Erica replies. Her eyes are clear and unforgiving; she knows exactly why he is here.

“Are you still a governess for the Winklevoss?”  
“No.” No explanation, just a curt answer. “Mr. Parker, let us move away from niceties. Why are you here?”

It’s direct and too the point, and Sean wonders if he should reply in kind.

“I came to talk to you about your marriage to Mr. Thiel,” he says instead, and Erica closes her eyes and breathes out loudly, as if suddenly dizzy.

“Yes,” she says quietly, “I thought you might.”

 

He absorbs that in silence and the memory of the night he found her lies thick and heavy between them. Her hands are twisting a handkerchief in her lap and she looks uncomfortable, but determined.

“How can you marry him?” Sean asks finally. “He…it was him, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Erica says after a minute. “It was. Not – not Mr. Saverin.” The dryness of her tone tells Sean that she knows it was him that accused Eduardo and he flushes.

“What I did was wrong,” he says quietly, “and I ruined an innocent man’s life. But Miss Albright – you don’t have to ruin yours. You don’t have to marry him. You can testify against him with me and he can go to jail.”

Erica looks at him so scathingly that he almost flinches.

“Mr. Parker,” she says finally, “the rules of this world are different for women. I marry my rapist because I have no choice. I have no prospects, no money, no credibility with the police, no family that will support me. If I may speak plainly, I do not possess either my virginity or a sum of great wealth, which are the grounds on which most men marry.”

“The Zuckerbergs – I am sure we will take you in –”

“Mr. Thiel has threatened to ruin them,” Erica tells him without inflection. “I believe him when he tells me that he can do it, that Mr. Zuckerberg made an unwise investment with him and the only reason the Zuckerbergs are still financially sound is because of Thiel’s generosity. If I tried to expose him then the Zuckerbergs would be penniless, be ruined.” She pauses for a moment. “He also threatened the Winklevoss family, especially the boys. I knew then that I had to leave the family in order for their safety.” She smiles, without humor. “I am only still a governess due to Mr. Thiel’s generosity, as I am the governess of his sister’s children. They, of course, are safe from him.”

Sean struggles, in vain, to make sense of a world in which nothing can be fixed and he has no power in. The truth is beginning to catch up with him, is chasing him down mercilessly.

“Why did you let Mr. Saverin be arrested?” he asks finally. He sees her consider the question, sees her wonder why he accused Mr. Saverin in the first place.

“At first, I did not know who it was that attacked me,” Erica admits, ducking her head. “He…took me from behind. I could not see his face, and he did not speak. When you found me, I was not myself. I couldn’t…” she pauses, draws a deep breath. “Being attacked like that messes with the mind, Mr. Parker, in ways I cannot explain. I did not come back to myself for some time. When I did, Mr. Saverin had already been imprisoned.”

She sighs. “I wonder, often, what made you think that you had the right to accuse my attacker without my permission or knowledge.”

“I thought…” Sean falters, feeling young and foolish and _selfish_ in the face of Erica’s pain, her sacrifice, her humble resignation to what her life now is. “I thought it was him, and I wanted to keep you safe.”

“You did exactly what I did not want,” Erica whispers. “Now two lives are ruined instead of just one.”

“Testify against Thiel,” Sean says. He is desperate, he is clinging to hope, grasping at straws. “Or at least write a statement that Saverin is innocent. I’ll back you up.”

“Have you not been listening to anything I’ve been saying, Mr. Parker?” Erica asks him sadly. “You’re an unreliable witness. I’m lowborn Austrian woman. No one will listen to us. And even if they did…” She looks away, swallowing hard. Sean tries not to notice the tears glimmering on her cheeks, tries to give her at least that privacy. “I will not do it, I will not risk it. I can’t. He will hurt the people I – the people _we –_ love. Mr. Parker, I’m afraid I have no choice.”

“There has to be some way,” he whispers. “There must be.

“There’s not,” Erica whispers back to him. “We have made our bed, and we shall have to lie in it.”

 

He leaves soon afterwards, thinking about what she had said and wondering how he still managed to be so wrong about everything, even after all this time.

It was not Erica’s fault that she was lowborn and Austrian and female. It was not Erica’s fault that she had been raped, that she was trapped in a situation she had no way out of. It was Sean’s fault.

And it was Sean’s fault that Eduardo would never become a doctor, that Eduardo had spent three years in prison and another year and a half in the army. It was Sean’s fault.

 

_Dear Mark,_

_How can I ask you to forgive me when I cannot even forgive myself?_

But it is not in Sean Parker to give up. He half-accepts that he will never be forgiven now, but he hopes – perhaps blindly – that after the war, Mark and Eduardo will be reunited, that they will live long and happy lives together. Perhaps Sean can convince Cambridge to let Eduardo study as a doctor. Perhaps it will all be worth it if Mark and Eduardo attain the happiness they deserved. Perhaps Erica’s suffering will not be in vain.

Sean has not been able to think of a way to help her, and cannot ask anyone for advice. It is a heavy, shameful secret that sits on his shoulder and whispers nastily in his ear, and he wonders what he would do if he came face to face with Mr. Thiel.

Perhaps the proper answer would be _kill him_ but Sean is not, and never has been, a violent man. If confronted with the opportunity to kill Mr. Thiel, he would be unable too.

He comes to this conclusion and decides to get roaring drunk, because Sean Parker has a limited tolerance of his own shortcomings.

The next day, when he is sober and regretting every choice he’s ever made, he troops off to the hospital where Mark works and hopes to spot the pretty black haired girl he had seen Mark talk to.

He finds her after half an hour of wandering, and clears his throat when she passes.

“Can I help you?” She asks, and he smiles at her and tries to exude charm as effortlessly as he used too.

“Yes, yes you can. Nurse…?”

“Delpy,” The woman replied. “Nurse Marilyn Delpy.”

“Well, Marilyn,” Sean says, “I happen to know you’re a friend of Mark Zuckerberg’s, and I need to get a letter to him. It’s urgent.”

She frowns thoughtfully, and Sean wishes that Mark had fallen for her instead of Eduardo. She would have been perfect for him.

“He’s not working today,” she says finally, “and your letter would get lost in his paperwork. Here’s his address,” she scribbles something down. “I’m sure you can just drop it off.”

Sean beams at her. “Thank you so much,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

 

Sean doesn’t wait to go to Mark’s, because he is afraid he’ll lose his nerve. He is aware that this is a bad idea, a terrible idea, that he just betrayed Mark once again by using his friends to find out where he lives, but…Sean Parker is desperate. He does what needs to be done. It’s why he’s such a good journalist.

It’s also why he finds himself knocking on a drably painted green door, hoping that Mark will answer. When the first few knocks do go unanswered, Sean begins to pray because it seems appropriate, because there will never be anything as important as this and if God or Buddha is real and they could just help him out –

The door swings open, revealing Mark in an undershirt, draw string pants and thick socks. He stares at Sean blankly before going to close the door.

Sean throws his shoulder in the way. “You have to let me in,” he pleads. “I have come all this way, Mark, please give me five minutes of your time.”

Something – Sean wonders what – makes Mark agree, makes him open the door and allow Sean into his flat.

 

“I hear you’re an editor now,” Mark says flatly. Sean raises his eyebrows.

“So you have been receiving my letters,” he says, and Mark gives his half-shrug that is so very _Mark_. Sean has missed it.

“I’m sorry to hear about Amy,” Mark says a beat later, and he does sound sorry.

“Yes,” Sean agrees quietly. “I am too.”

“Why are you here?” Mark asks bluntly, but then –

“Mark? Mark, who is it?”

Slowly, as if in a dream, Sean turns and sees Eduardo Saverin, shirtless, his chest bandaged, appear in the doorway to the other room.

Eduardo sees him and stops, a thousand unnamable emotions playing over his face. His eyes are very dark and very bright, and Sean wants to flinch backwards, wants to apologize, wants to cry.

“Oh,” Eduardo says quietly, and he looks at Mark. Mark smiles faintly at him. Sean cannot help but notice that they speak with their eyes – something he and Amy had never done – and feels empty.

“Go back to bed,” Mark says quietly. Eduardo nods, leaves, ignoring Sean entirely.

“I came here to apologize,” Sean admits. “I – I don’t expect you to forgive me,”

“Don’t worry,” Mark says coldly. “I won’t.”

Sean swallows. “But I want – I want to tell you that I want to recant my statement, to try and clear Eduardo’s name.”

Mark is staring at him so intensely that Sean knows Mark doesn’t believe him. It hurts.

“You’re an unreliable witness,” Mark says finally. “It won’t make a difference.”

“Well, I want to go home and explain to Mum and Stepdad, then. Try and clear Eduardo’s name with as many people as possible.”

“What’s stopping you?” Mark demands.

“I wanted to see you,” Sean admits. “And…apologize. It seemed only fair to inform you of my intentions, since you and Eduardo were the ones hurt the most.”

Mark nods. He is not looking at Sean, but Sean can tell that he’s listening, trying to figure out if Sean is lying, trying to figure out what can be done. Mark’s rage is a cold, analytical one and Sean is grateful for that.

There’s a noise, and Sean turns to find Eduardo back in the doorway, staring at him.

“What – what is he doing here?” Eduardo demands finally, addressing Mark. “Why is he bothering us?”

“I want to try and clear your name, Eduardo,” Sean says, speaking too him directly. Eduardo’s fists are balled, and when Sean forces himself to meet Eduardo’s gaze he is petrified by the rage there.

“I want to break your neck,” Eduardo says, and Sean swallows, forces himself not to step backward. Eduardo is a soldier; he’s killed before. He could easily kill Sean.

Sean wonders if Mark would intervene, if Mark _should_ intervene.

“Have you any idea what it’s like in jail? Course you don’t. Tell me, did it give you pleasure to think of me inside?” Eduardo demands, and Sean tries and fails not to shake.

“No,” he admits.

“But you did nothing!” Eduardo shouts. “ _You did nothing_!”

“Yes,” Sean agrees. He’s staring at the floor now.

“Did you think it was really I that assaulted Miss Albright?” Eduardo demands. “Did you really think I would do such a thing?”

“I – I wasn’t sure,” Sean admits. He looks back at Eduardo. “I didn’t know.

“And what makes you sure now?” Eduardo takes a step closer. “What changed your mind?”

“Time,” Sean admits. “Growing up.”

“Growing up,” Eduardo repeats. “ _Growing up?_ You were twenty-one, Sean! How old do you need to be before you know the difference between right and wrong? You were an adult, and you lied like a child. Soldiers die everyday at age eighteen and still act older than you did! You made – you _ruined_ my life.”

“Not just yours,” Sean says before he can stop himself.

“What?” Eduardo asks after a minute, and Sean raises his head.

“Erica’s,” he says. “I ruined Erica’s life as well.”

Eduardo’s nostrils flare. “Five years ago you didn’t care about telling the truth. You and all your family, you just assumed that for all my education, I was still little better than a servant, still not to be trusted. Thanks to you, they were able to close ranks and throw me to the fucking wolves. And what about Erica? She will never know justice because you falsely accused me!”

“I’m sorry,” Sean whispers.

“You’re sorry?” Eduardo repeats, incredulous.

He moves forward, fast, fist raised, and then Mark is between them, between Eduardo’s fist and Sean.

“Wardo,” he says. “Come back. Come back to me.”

Sean looks up, watches a shaking Eduardo return to himself, watches the rage drain from him, leaving exhaustion and pain.

“It’s alright,” Mark whispers, and he cups Eduardo’s cheek with one hand. “It’s alright.”

“Yes,” Eduardo whispers, eyelids fluttering, and Mark kisses him gently, tenderly. Eduardo melts into the touch and Sean feels like he’s witnessing something incredibly private, something incredibly holy.

 

He moves to look out the window, to take in the shabby kitchen, and tries not to listen to Mark and Eduardo’s low voices, their conversation. It is only when Mark says his name that he turns and crosses the room back to them, cautious and afraid of Eduardo’s rage.

“There isn’t much time,” Mark says flatly, “because Eduardo has a train to catch back to base at six. But there are some things you are going to do for us.” It’s not a question. Sean swallows and nods, takes out his pad of paper and a pen and waits.

“You’ll go to your parents as soon as you can and tell them everything they need to know to be convinced that your evidence was false. You’ll go and see a solicitor and make a statement and have it signed and witnessed and send copies to us. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Sean says, scribbling it all down.

Eduardo is still talking.  “Then you’ll write a detailed letter to me, explaining everything that led up to you saying you saw me by the lake.”

“Yes,” Sean agrees. “But you should know – it was Peter Thiel.”

“Jesus,” Eduardo whispers. “I – yes. That makes sense.”

“I’ve been to see Erica,” Sean admits, wondering what Eduardo had seen that he hadn’t, wondering why it made sense. “She’s going to marry him.”

“She won’t be able to testify against him then,” Mark says even as Eduardo demands

“Why?”

“He’s threatened to ruin our family,” Sean says to Mark, “and to hurt the Winklevoss family. Erica…doesn’t want that.” He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “She has no options. She’s trapped. I’ve been trying to think of anything I can do and there’s nothing. She’s even told me so.”

Mark and Eduardo absorb this in silence. Sean can almost hear their hopes leave, can almost hear the despair claim them. Mark moves until he has his arms wrapped around Eduardo, who is staring at the floor, his eyes dull.

“I –” Sean swallows, turns away. “I’m very, very sorry to have caused you all this terrible distress. I am very, very sorry.”

Eduardo won’t even look at him. Mark nods. “Just do what we’ve asked of you. Write

it all down.”

“I will. I promise.” Sean says after a moment. They say nothing else. Eduardo is slumped in Mark’s embrace, and Mark is looking at him with an expression of such tenderness that Sean has to look away. He feels tears prick in the back of his eyes and tries to ignore them.

He leaves, shutting the shit-green door behind him, only pausing to peer into a window.

The light inside their flat illuminates Mark and Eduardo, and Sean can see that Eduardo is crying, tears streaming down his cheeks, even as Mark kisses him and wraps his arms around Eduardo’s trembling shoulders. The kisses turn desperate after a moment, with Eduardo sobbing, and Sean swears he can see tears on Mark’s cheeks, too.

“Goodbye,” Sean tells them softly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you want a happy ending, don't read this.

_America, 1998_

“Why is this your last work?” The reporter is asking, and Sean tries to focus on her and fails. “Are you retiring?”

“Can I have a minute?” Sean asks, swallowing hard. “I need…I’ve an awful headache.”

They go to commercial and Sean slumps back to his dressing room, swallows three advil and decides that chemotherapy is a terrible idea.

He had not wanted to leave his house, honestly, but the offer of an interview on _Regis and Kelly_ – an interview in which he can finally tell the truth, sixty-three years later – was too good to pass up.

He returns to the chair on set and sinks into it, pleased that it’s truly comfortable, and waits for the cameras to resume.

“Sean Parker is joining me today to talk about his latest novel, which is also apparently his last. Sean, would you tell us more about that?”

“It’s my last novel because I’m dying of leukemia,” Sean says flatly, and hears the reporter’s little gasp of shock. “It is also the novel I’ve been trying to write my entire career.”

“You mentioned earlier that this novel was somewhat autobiographical. Did that make it difficult to write?”

“Not at all,” Sean says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It was a matter of finding a way to honor everyone’s wishes and to tell the truth after certain people had passed away. This story is very important. I have changed no names in an effort to be as truthful as possible.”  
“But you mentioned that it was almost all true,” the reporter says. “So there is something you have changed.”

“Yes,” Sean admits. “You’ve read the book; you understand that I got first-person  accounts of all the events I didn’t personally witness, conditions in prison, the evacuation of Dunkirk, everything. But the effect of all this honesty was rather...pitiless, you see.” He sighs. “I couldn’t any longer imagine

what purpose would be served by it.”

He can tell that the reporter is confused. “By what? By honesty?”

“No,” Sean says. “By reality. The truth is, I was never brave enough to go see Mark in 1940.”

The interviewer is watching him intently.

“That scene never happened. In fact, Mark was never reunited with Eduardo after 1938, because…” Sean swallows, looks away for a minute and then looks back. “Eduardo died of blood poisoning on the last day of the Dunkirk evacuations.” He smiles thinly. “Ironic, isn’t? Eduardo wanted to be a doctor to study blood disorders.”

The interviewer is speechless.

“Yes,” Sean agrees with her, though she hasn’t said anything. “Eduardo died, and I am told that Chris Hughes took his letters and brought them to Mark, who kept them the rest of his life.” He sighs. “Unfortunately, I never made things right with Mark, because he died only a few months after Eduardo did, in the bombings that destroyed the gas and water mains above Balham tube station.”

Sean frowns. “Which is also ironic, as Mark was a very gifted swimmer.”

He turns away from the interviewer, looks directly into the camera. “I am a selfish person, and because of this Mark and Eduardo never had the time together they both so longed for and deserved, which, ever since, I’ve...always felt I prevented. But what sense of hope or satisfaction could a reader derive from an ending like that? So, in the book, I wanted to give Eduardo and Mark what they lost out on in life. I’d like to think this wasn’t weakness or evasion, but a final act of kindness.” He hesitates for a minute, wonders if he is being honest with himself or if he’s being wistful. “I gave them their happiness.”

_*_

_Northern England, 1941_

“Mark!” Eduardo calls. He’s standing on the beach pictured in the postcard tucked into his breast pocket. “Mark, c’mon, the sun is setting. You won’t want to miss this!”

“I’m here, Wardo, stop shouting,” Mark says wryly, and Eduardo turns to see him moving across the sound, hands in his coat pockets like he’s cold.

“Are you cold?” Eduardo asks in concern. When Mark makes a face, he wraps Mark in his arms, ignoring Mark’s protests, and when Mark finally relaxes against him, Eduardo smiles into his hair.

“I’m not cold,” Mark says stubbornly. “I’m happy.”

“Oh?” Eduardo says, teasing him.

”You came back,” Mark says simply. “You came back to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on [tumblr!](http://marnz.tumblr.com/) prompts welcome.


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